May God hold you when I cannot.

"May God hold you when I cannot."

My mom wrote those words in a letter to me for my senior retreat when I was 17 years old. I've loved them since. 

To me this sentence has a dual meaning: that God will take care of me when she is no longer around and that God will allow me to see her in places that only he could. 

So I'll look for her. And I'm sure I'll find her. And when I do, I'll know that both she and God are holding me. 

I'll look for her in the tallest cathedrals and in the discipline of the Catholic Church,  

in people who march for something they believe in and in the laughter of a mother and daughter. 

I’ll look for her in the sands of Destin and fajitas for two, in any good fight for anything worth fighting for and in the rugged hands of someone who made a living doing manual labor.

I'll look for her in my feet which look like hers, in her sisters that share her stature, in Corinthian chimes and in the tune of "Brown Eyed Girl". 

I'll look for her in the eyes of Ella, Ainsley, Ivah, and Millie and in the smirk that William got from her, in the whites of her dog's eyes and in single red roses. 

I'll look for her in mail jeeps and in surprise, hand-written notes.

I'll look for her in my C-section scar and the first time William sees Mickey Mouse, 

in the sound of my brother's name and in the way my dad dances, once he allows himself that joy again. 

I'll look for her in Hallmark ornaments of "The Wizard of Oz", and in "I Love Lucy" reruns and collectables, in backless slippers and our matching fluffy robes. 

I'll look for her in Chuck’s jokes and at times when my sister-in-law encourages us to try something new,

in pedicures at nail salons and on the hammock outside. 

I'll look for her in bubble gum snowballs and Sesame Street Live, in the Divine Mercy Chaplet and at the church in Praire Ronde. 

I'll look for her at Mardi Gras parades and in gumbo by the fireplace, 

in the streets of the French Quarter and in the revelry of wedding receptions. 

I'll look for her in a mocha latte and in a big glass of Prisoner wine, 

on the days I feel defeated in my struggle to be a good mom and on the days that I hope she's proudly watching. 

And if you're looking for her too, I hope that you find her in me.